


GamKri 30 Day OTP Challenge: Vanilla Edition

by AnonymousPumpkin



Series: GamKri OTP Challenges [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:58:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1873998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You be the anchor that keeps my heart on the ground, I'll be the wings that keep your heart in the clouds. Not like you really need to be high. A series of prompted one-shots for the OTP absolutely nobody ships but me.</p><p>Day Ten: Watching the other sleep:  When you open your eyes and see Kankri's face inches from your own, relaxed and peaceful and in the world of the dreaming dead, you make up your mind then and there that's a sight you're gonna get your peep on every motherfucking day for the rest of your natural life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Getting lost somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the OTP Challenge you are probably most familiar with, as that was created with art in mind, not so much writing. The OTP challenge I am using for this work can be found [here.](http://mizufallsfromkumo.tumblr.com/post/50998898131/mizus-30-day-otp-challenge)

01: Guilt

It's really nice out. The hottest part of the night has passed, though the moons are still pretty high in the sky. They provide some light for the two of you to navigate, light which becomes all the more precious when he announces you are going to leave the road. There's a bit of a breeze that carries the salt and hum of the ocean. Your moirail stares longingly in that direction, and you briefly consider offering to reroute so that you can sit on the beach. You know he loves to sit and just stare at the ocean, and you know if you stay back you'll have nothing to fear from the seadwellers...but you also know where the habit comes from, and you know he has something planned for tonight. So, for his sake, you keep your mouth shut. Well, actually you don't. You just don't offer to detour.

You spent a lot of time by yourself in your session, and got in the habit of talking to yourself when there was no one else to talk to. You could carry on whole conversations without a single person around. Moving in with Gamzee had curbed that habit. He talked to himself sometimes too, though that really just made you want to stop more. But he claimed he liked to listen to you, so you allowed yourself to ramble some, and it was always a nice way, you thought, to fill the inevitable silences in activities like cooking or cleaning or walking. So you find it no trouble at all to talk, mostly to Gamzee, while the two of you walk to wherever he is leading you. You've been off the road awhile now, and every now and then you start to think he's going in circles. But he still looks relaxed and in control of this, so you don't say a thing. After a while, talking to yourself wears on you (you blame the recent sweeps of having real conversations) and you try to think of something he'd actually respond to.

Talking with Gamzee is always a bit of a challenge. You're never one hundred percent certain that he is listening. You never know if what he is going to say is going to be sickening sweet or gloriously offending, or a very confusing blend of the two. And, despite having very early on in the relationship wrote down and memorized his triggers, you're not sure if you've really gotten them all...sometimes the strangest things set him off.

However, you refuse to let yourself be intimidated, and you clear your throat, a habit you developed upon learning that speaking up without preamble frightened him when he was already upset.

“I saw Karkat the other day,” you begin, as conversationally as possible. Karkat isn't _officially_ on the list of triggers, but bringing up past quadrants can make anyone on edge. You know. “He came to visit while you were away. He said he had found some of your things and wanted to know when to bring them by the hive.” He doesn't say anything, but you think you see his frown deepening. He isn't looking at you; instead he is focused on the landscape around you, which at the moment is mostly bushes and a few trees. “I told him when you'd be away again, though looking back I realized I probably should have checked with you first, to ensure I wasn't overstepping some kind of boundary. I thought at first you might appreciate the gesture, as I am well aware of your rocky relationship and your volatile history, but perhaps you've come to terms with that part of your past without my explicit interference and are fine with, or even may prefer to, see Karkat again.” He's still not responding to you. You tilt your head and with a sinking pusher realize that he is frowning deeply and his eyes are narrowed. You feel something deep in your gut, a little wiggle you are not entirely accustomed to, but are not unfamiliar with. You are starting to panic. He's angry at you. “In fact, I think it is quite clear that I have overstepped my boundaries. If you like, I can contact him and revise my offer.” He still doesn't respond.

You falter, your throat starting to close. Before the two of you had gotten close, you'd almost completely forgotten about all the physical reactions you could have to your emotions. Now you felt them constantly and you were certain your body was attempting to punish you somehow for being dead by experiencing everything tenfold what you remembered. Your hands start to shake and you stop walking completely. He doesn't seem to notice, walking forward with obvious distress. His hands are clenched in fists, and when he turns his head to watch some animal fleeing, you see his face is twisted in distaste. You're somewhat ashamed of how small and unsure you sound when you ask, “Gamzee?”

He stops with a start, and when he turns to look at you, you are shocked at how quickly the expression slides off of his face. His frown disappears...well, no it doesn't. But all the anger in his face is gone. He just looks bewildered and sheepish. He has gone on a bit without you, and he backtracks hastily, his frown giving way to concern when he sees the panic on your face.

“Gam...zee?” you say again, this time with more hesitation.

“...Kan...kri?” He says your name with just as much hesitation, and you don't know if he's mocking you. “Is something wrong? You got jumped by another one of those motherfucking cramps?” He hunches down slightly as he asks, and you know if you say yes, he's going to pick you up and carry you, whether you like it or no (you like it).

“No, I just...weren't you listening?”

Immediately, he looks stricken and his eyes dart away from yours, veering far to the left. Ah.

“Uhh...not quite,” he admits. “I was getting my peep on this pretty landscape to see if I could find anything that jumps out in my memory sponge. Got kinda caught up in it.”

For once, you're relieved he didn't hear you. You hope you don't visibly relax; in fact, you try your damnedest to bring yourself up like you normally do, and cross your arms at your chest. “Oh. Well, don't worry about it then. It wasn't that important to begin...wait...are you saying you're looking for something you _recognize_?” Your eyes widen as his expression grows more guilty and a different kind of panic, trivial and fleeting, rears up in your feels bladder. “Gamzee, are we _lost_?”

He starts to panic as you do, and straightens up hastily, waving his hands as if staving off a swarm of angry bees. “No, no...well...yeah. Yeah. The path all up and moved while I wasn't looking and I ain't getting a look on a damn thing I know. But, but I'm sure we ain't too far. We weren't walking too fast and I can still kinda hear the ocean doing its smash on the sea...” He trails off, uncertain, and looks back over his shoulder. You're not sure how he manages to be so hopeless sometimes.

You take a deep breath. The panic inside of you can't really dissipate, you were never good at hiding or getting rid of your emotions, so it just turns over into annoyance.

“Well...let's go to the beach then,” you sigh, your tone sharp with resignation. “That should be easy enough to find. We can't possibly lose the _ocean_.”

He wilts in the face of your disappointment and nods. Immediately you feel bad, but before you can even open your mouth to apologize, he's turned again and is heading in the direction of the ocean. You just stand there a minute, your arms crossed and your face no doubt frozen in the indignant annoyance you've mastered, and when you start to follow, your feet feel heavy.

His shoulders droop as the two of you walk in silence, and eventually your guilt becomes too much to bear, and you reach for his hand. He jerks in surprise, and almost trips over himself as his head whips around to look at you.

“What?” You frown. “I'm not allowed to hold your hand?” The teasing tone you're going for didn't quite come through, but he at least partially got the message. He smiles, and squeezes your hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...not the best thing I've ever written. At all. The ending was erased and the rewrite was rushed, so... [sigh] Not the best beginning.


	2. Day Two: Pet Names

02: Mocking

Kankri hated nicknames. He got shouty about all kinds of things, with burning like the sickest fires in his eyes, but nothing got him going like when a motherfucker said his name like it wasn't. He knew damn well what his name was, and fuck you if you told him what it wasn't. Gamzee, in his head, had all kinds of names and affections to call him, but didn't say one of them aloud. Once, Kankri had whispered in his ear why he hated nicknames while they were curled together in a pile in a dark corner somewhere.

  
“They're mocking me,” he'd said, his voice so quiet that Gamzee had to strain to hear. “They can say it with the best of intentions, and I still know in my bloodpusher that they're mocking me.”

So, even though Gamzee had more pet names for Kankri than their combined sessions had fingers and toes, he kept his mouth shut and only called him by his name. Every now and then, he called him “my palest of brothers” or something along those lines, but even that made him fall into a fit of insecurity, so he never crossed the line and called him “precious” or “stardust,” even if he desperately wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...craptastically short. I do not think that Kankri is one for pet names, though, so this is the best I could do in the moment. This may be the shittiest of the OTP Challenges. An alternate fill for this chapter can be found in the Alternate Edition (thread/post/?) in this series.


	3. Day Three: Patching each other up

03: Hematophobia

“Now...now, don't freak out...” Gamzee's hands are up like he's about to ward off an attack. “Ain't a need to get your eyes that wide, brother...just take a deep breath, that's it...” He demonstrates, taking a breath so deep he makes himself light-headed and starts to sway where he stands. Annoyance with him briefly flares up inside you, but is lost quickly in your sea of terror. He is not blind to either, and his hands slowly extend towards you. You flinch away, baring your teeth before you can think of who it is you're growling at.

“I'm _not_ freaking out, Gamzee!” you snap, but the lie falters in your throat and comes out a shaking rasp. You hold your hand against your chest and you refuse to look down, feeling sick to your stomach just _feeling_ the gross, wet substance coating your palms. “I am being _triggered_ , and there is a _vast_ difference between the two. A trigger is a stimulus causing extreme anxiety or even flashbacks to traumatic events, and to be triggered is a serious reaction to such stimulus. Freaking out, however, is a reaction which involves a great deal of chaos and fruitless panic in response to something that is not serious at all. If I were _freaking out_ , there would not be a...”

You don't think even you are listening past that point. Gamzee takes your hand, the one not pressed against your chest, and tugs you up the steps to your hive. Your voice fills the silence, rising in volume and pitch until your throat closes up and you just stand there shaking. Gamzee doesn't let go of your hand, not until you're in the ablutionblock and he needs to. He presses your knuckles to his lips and lets your hand fall and, pathetically, you reach out to him with the other hand as he leaves. Your hand catches on his shirt, and you almost grab him until you realize which hand you're using. You stare at the red on your palm for a good five seconds before realization hits you, and you turn away from him to avoid vomiting on the backs of his shoes. Luckily you get to the load gaper before your stomach completely empties itself.

He's back at your side in an instant, his hand patting at your back awkwardly. He pulls you up and walks you to the counter, pressing you forward from behind. The contact only serves to put you further on edge, but he seems to ignore your growing anxiety.

“Get yourself turned around,” he says, as close to firm as he can get. “Gotta get this motherfucker patched up before you bleed out all over yourself.”

“I'm not...I can't...” You weakly allow yourself to be turned around, and he lifts you up for a split second to sit on the counter.

When he tries to pry your hand off your chest, it's like trying to separate two pieces of metal that have been welded together by a blowtorch fueled by immature wiggler phobia. Eventually, he gives up tugging in vain on your wrist and looks at you for a split second with the dark annoyance that reminds you that he was not always the gentle, perfect moirail you know. He takes a deep breath and lets go your wrist. He takes a step closer to you, and you tense up instinctively.

“I'm gonna turn around,” he says, “and your hands'll get their rest on around my waist, got it?” When he sees your confusion, he blinks slowly and takes another deep breath. “You ain't gotta look if you don't wanna, and my body's a fuck of a wall. You get it, brother?”

“Oh...oh...” You think you do. So you nod, and he turns around and backs up until his hips bump against yours. You hiss and jerk away. He sighs, and you can see him rolling your eyes, which he never does when he's facing you. You close your eyes and press your face into his back between his shoulder blades, and slide your arms around his waist.

His hands stop yours halfway, and so you feel rather than hear him cleaning your wound. A wet towel slides across your palm and the back of your hand until the warm, sticky feeling is gone. You almost sob as the wound starts to sting, disinfected (you hope) by whatever he found in the drawers. You bite your lip. Time seems to move at half its normal speed as he wraps your hand, so tight at first that your fingers go numb. He starts purring at some point, no doubt for your benefit, and when he turns around, he warns you. You feel like a wiggler, clapping your hand over your eyes to avoid seeing the bloody towel in his hand, but he doesn't say a word. He lets you cling to him while he goes about cleaning himself up. You grip his shirt so tight that you begin to fear you will bleed again.

When he's done cleaning up, he pulls you into a hug and rests his cheek on top of your head.

“We should get that shirt off,” he says, quiet. He talks slow and moves slower, as if afraid of scaring you. “Don't look at a motherfucker like that...can't be walking around all bloodied up like some kinda delinquent.”

You step away from him, telling yourself it'll only be for a few moments. In sharp contrast to moments before, you feel so vulnerable and unprotected away from his side that you can't bear to pull away. You try and fail to get your own sweater off. Your hands are shaking, and your injured hand is bandaged so thick you can't close your fist. You fumble with it only a few minutes before Gamzee sees you're struggling and helps you. He dumps the sweater into the nearest bin and in mere seconds has procured another shirt for you to wear. He doesn't help you into it, though you almost wish he would. As soon as you're done, you reach for him again, and avoid looking at your hand. He wraps his arms around you again, and rests his cheek atop your head.

“There,” he says, “all done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww. Poor Kanny prolly got a papercut or something.
> 
> Hematophobic Vantases is also a thing I really like.


	4. Day Four: Hospital Visits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried so hard not to be really stereotypical and make it a mental hospital, but I failed so so hard.

04: Meaningful Quote

She's looking at you with the vague, cool face of the disinterested, but you couldn't stop talking right now if you tried. Your tongue gone and run off the minute you had company, and it's not easy reigning that shit in when you ain't got a damn care anywhere in you to do so. Not a lot of people call yourself friend, but you ain't never had trouble making talk at people, even the ones what don't give a bitchtit if you live or die. This bitch is one of those; she got vacancy signs in her eyes like a motherfucker, and she didn't even have the decency to spew her name or why she's in a place like this where they keep safe those who can't keep themselves. You don't ask her that shit, though. You told her plenty why you're here, about the voices and the eyes that got to watching you from the shadows of your own home.

“The colors ain't right if you ain't slapping that shit on with your own hands,” you try to explain. You wave your paint-splattered fingers at her like that'll wave the knowing into her head, but that ain't the way the world works. She just nods and yawns all big-like and makes some excuse about having to find a little girl in the bathroom or some shit. You actually try to make her stay, not saying that you don't be trusting the voices to stay out this time, especially not if you're all on your lonesome. She's gone long before you realize you've been gabbing at your own self for the past five minutes and you're getting paint all over the carpet. It's dripping slow and easy off your fingertips, so slow and easy it drives you off the fucking road.

You wait for her to meander on back in, but it don't cut that way. You see her wandering about later, and she smiles at you like she ain't never seen you before, and maybe she ain't. You wave like a good motherfucker who don't know no better and let your body take itself somewhere far where it can get that relaxation what it's been craving these months.

 

You try to get some peeps at some words, but the books in this place are shit and crap. The movies ain't much better. You been of the thought no one could have a worse taste than your own paramour, but your mind got to forgetting the shit blaring at the hospital inmates. Not a single damn romcom that ain't heavy with messages of God and shit you don't need preached at your ears no more than it already is. Ain't no God you put your own faith in what let the corruption drip in your brain the manner it does, and certainly ain't no God that put you in the romance you got now, which got in it so much bliss and perfection you ain't got a word for it.

 

You never was a God-fearing individual, especially not once you got that rot in your mind what don't let you know truth from lies nohow without taking things on faith. Your old goat never did sit right with that, but he ain't never raised a word or hand against your blaspheming ass. Only time motherfucker ever got violent was when you got up in your pants and told him you ain't swinging the way no normal man should. Ain't no God you put your faith in what make a father can't even love his own son on account of what he wanna stick his dick in. But that mouth you got to kissing on lately got enough fear of God for two, and Kankri ain't never been one to hold back what's his from you.

Speaking of Kankri. Visiting hour comes mighty quick when you pass the time thinking about what's truthful, and you ain't got but thirty minutes before you get your love all to yourself and a room of other fucked up motherfuckers.

Kankri ain't got no love for the place you get your wicked rest on at, but he seen what becomes of you when you ignore the warning bells what been drilled into you since first you laid hands on one you got to saying you loved. He seen what comes when the rot gets to fester on behind your eyes and fake bullshit gets to wagging its tongue in your ears and you lose way of what's right and proper. That don't make him any happier sleeping in that big bed all on his lonesome. That's why you always ensure the motherfucker knows he can visit you. Ain't a pretty place you go to get your head all scrubbed clean of what don't sit right for you, but you ain't never got the urge to close the door to him on account of what's soaked into your sponge.

Your preachy bro ain't never failed to visit before, but that don't stop the fear what comes while you sit and wait. The voice of the clock ain't kind to you and speaks words that ain't nothing but cruel all about how he ain't got no love for you no more. Your own voice gets to gabbing too, telling you on occasions you done fucked everything up proper. When you got yourself flying so high you gone and forgot his birthday, or when you slept right through dinner plans when you ain't wanted a thing more than to dress up nice and go out proper with your lover. Neither the clock nor your own thought see fit to tell how you painted that motherfucker a portrait so gorgeous it set him to crying like you shot a dog in front of his own self, or the time ain't a thing got done but cooking what foods get him in heaven for the occasion of winning some award for being damned good with his mouth in a right special way.

Turns out your paranoia ain't nothing but. When the door opens, lots of folks come in what don't mean a damn thing to you, but one comes in what does. Kankri looks as gorgeous as he did when first you set eyes on him, and it ain't nothing short of a miracle how delighted he looks to see you upright and conscious in the way of proper and good folks. He got a bag over his shoulder all packed with clothes and a card you ain't got a bit of recognition for.

You greet him in the proper way, kiss on each cheek, kiss on the mouth, and you hug him till you ain't got strength left in your arms to do it. He ain't none too comfortable with you being as affectionate as you was born, but he don't do a thing beyond tug the hem of his sweater and get his chill on with you at the table you were assigned.

He asks how you're doing, and you don't lie too much. Not great, not bad. Got more meds what they're shoving at you not entirely with your will, which he supports in the way you knew he would. He gives tell how boring the house is with your absence in, but that's a truth you don't believe what with ten cats waltzing in and out every door. You grab his hand and get to painting pictures on his skin with your fingertips, listening to him talk. Kankri always gets his talk on like he's gonna die if he takes a pause for getting a breath, but you never minded that none. He talks the clock into submission.

You tell him you only got two more days of this bitch, then you're free to be his again. You tell him how the new meds they give feel like taking the shit end of a train to the face and he says all meds make a beating of a man right after he takes them the first time. He ain't got experience what to making wind with, but he's got all kinds of degrees and shit make him a smart man as far as medicine goes. He says you ain't gotta take that shit if it ain't agreeing with you none, and he don't mind living close as possible to a hospital the rest of his days. You hug him when he says that, and he gets all manners of choked up for reasons you can't say.

You show him the painting you made what with your own hands just a few hours past and as always he lays praise the likes of which you never could imagine, smiling and letting his eyes get big like a little kid who ain't never seen a motherfucking fingerpainting before. You know he don't see the colors the proper way you do, so you tell him what he can't see, about how the reds are all him and the purples are all you and how that gold shit be all the feelings you don't know yet how to work into words can be told to him proper. While he's still mulling that over you let him know you'll take him out to dinner soon as you're out, cause he ain't one who sits too kind to missing Valentine's Day, not with that younger brother of his what got him accustomed to the idea of romance.

You ain't pleased when the clock speaks up and tells you you gotta let him go again. You know he'll visit again as soon as he's able, but knowing ain't a substitute for the real thing and you get weepy as a motherfucker giving him that hug goodbye. He tells you to stop acting juvenile. You salute him like one of them uniformed motherfuckers what make their life on the television, and his lips go on like they stuck between a smile and a scowl and it'd take a miracle to make their minds up on what they want.

Ain't till you get back to your room a card all falls out like it ain't got shit to live for holed up. It's all red and purple and pink and smells like Kankri's bedside drawer. You ain't getting up to reading no love poem on account of bawling like a babe with the damn thing in your hands, but you ain't needing to read on any of the words your lover wrote all in a line for you. You know he got a love in him like a fire, all burning and bright and shit. You know cause you got the same shit residing in you, hid though it is by that wicked shit what got your mind playing pretend at what's real and what's not. You tell the nurse you ain't got a need in you for no meds when you got this piece of paper pretty from your boy, but she just laughs and lays that shit on you no ways.


	5. Day Five: Scar Worship

05: Forgiveness

You ensure that his hands are securely tied, humming encouragements as you slip the last knot into place. You tug to make sure it is not rubbing his skin raw, and any place where it causes him discomfort is soothed with a kiss. You make sure he is comfortable (he never liked having his hands behind his back), and then take your place in front of him.

For this, you have both foregone your normal wear. He is topless, wearing a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants, and you are wearing the shirt he is not. You are both taller and thicker than he is, but it still hands off of you. But it is not for fashion that you are doing this. It soothes him, you know. It reassures him that you are his, that you do not mean him any harm.

Even so, he cowers. His head is bowed, so low that his chin is tucked and folded against his breast, and that will not do.

“Gamzee, look at me.” You try to keep your voice as commanding as you can, which is actually pretty commanding. You've gotten very good at this and, normally, he is very good at obeying. He is the one who asked you for this initially. Being restrained, being ordered, being taken care of...it gave him the kind of release that normal, vanilla moirail activities did not. That said, he generally knows it is in his best interest to obey you.

Today, however, he does not obey. If anything, he hides further. He hunches over, as much as he can with his hands and shoulders bound the way they are. It is restricting, but not tight. He looks so helpless and pathetic that you want to gather him in your lap and kiss away his anxieties. But if that was going to work, you wouldn't be doing this.

“Gamzee... _look_ at me.” Your voice is stronger.

He stiffens, his breathing harsh and wheezing. “Why?” he whispers, and you play along.

“Don't ask questions, Gamzee. Just look at me.” Your voice shakes a little bit, and you try to swallow your doubt. Normally he doesn't question you. Maybe this _isn't_ the best for him. Maybe you're just triggering him. Maybe he is going to get mad at you for this, and he won't understand that you're trying to _help_ him. “Gamzee. _Please_.”

Perhaps it's something in your voice, but he does look up.

His face is bare. You instructed him, before restraining him, to wash his face. You know that his face paint is his armor and his curtain to hide behind, and for tonight he must survive without it.

He only looks up at you for a few seconds and then he ducks his head again. You do not need to question why. It is written, quite literally, all across his face. His teeth clack together with the force of his chin hitting his chest, and you wince. You can hear the sounds of his knuckles as he flexes his hands, the scratching of his claws scrabbling uselessly at the rope.

_He's shaking_.

The realization shakes you to your core and you almost release him. You almost find yourself speaking the safe word normally reserved for him, unable to handle this.

“Gamzee...you are beautiful. Have I ever told you that?” You say it just as commanding, just as sure. There is no allowance for doubt. You say it as if it is obvious, and to you, it is.

He stills, and you see him start to frown, his eyes boring holes in the carpet at your feet. He doesn't respond right away, and you take the opportunity to keep talking. You reach down to grab his horn, and you run your hands up and down its silky length until he starts to relax, and then to purr. You tug it softly, softly, until he is looking up at you. His eyes are clouded and he looks...blissful.

You bend down (quite an endeavor; you are tall for both your caste and your age), and lay the softest of kisses at his hairline, over the bumpy ridge of his topmost scar. His purring stops abruptly and you don't need to look to see that his eyes have snapped back to clarity. He almost growls at you, but your grip tightens on his horn. The sound dies in his throat, and you place another kiss on just below the first. You kiss the entire length of the first scar, slow and light and so close to bursting that you almost can't do it. He is so _pitiful_ , kneeling before you with his hands bound and his eyes wet with tears he will refuse to shed and his lips pulled back to snarl at you in ill-placed defensiveness.

“Sshh,” you soothe him, rubbing at his horn again. You let him press his face into your neck, but only for a moment. You pull back and kiss his scar again, this time over his eyelid. You taste his tears, escaping without his consent, and your pusher squeezes in your chest. “There's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing to be ashamed of.”

You continue to croon to him, to tell him he is beautiful, and with every kiss you plant on his face, you tell him he is forgiven. You tell him that his deeds have not been forgotten, but he has their forgiveness, has he forgotten? You tell him you want nothing more than for him to love himself the way you love him, you _order_ him to love himself and to look you in the face and not to be ashamed of what you see there. You kiss his scars until the tears are running so thick down his face that you can't even taste his skin anymore. He sobs loud and broken into you, but you do not allow him any relief until you hear him repeat to you what you have told him, every word, in a voice that sounds halfway close to believing it. He chokes on the words and his own tears.

He actually _struggles_ out of the ropes as you are untying him, and throws himself into your arms before the last knot is even undone. That makes it a little awkward, but his face is pressed against your chest so tightly you can't help holding him. Panic rises up in you and you start to berate yourself. You were too tough on him, you asked for too much, he was too _distraught_ to say the safe word, what is _wrong_ with you...

But then he lifts his face and stares at you with such _adoration_ that your entire being breaks. You kiss him, on the mouth, on the cheeks, and even again on his scars (he tenses, but doesn't push you away), until you think you have conveyed how pale you are for him. He doesn't say anything still, just shaking in your embrace.

“Are you...alright?” you whisper, your voice stupidly hoarse ( _you_ weren't the one crying!).

He bites his lip, and looks so young that you want to break again. Slowly, he nods, but his eyes betray his lie. “Ain't got to believing all that shit you said about me yet,” he admits, his voice even more broken than your own. “But...that's why you're here, ain't it? To love what I ain't loving, to worship those parts of me too fucked up for me to so much as shake a fist at.”

You kiss his forehead, not his scar, and you hum agreement. That is what you're for. Because Gamzee Makara deserves to be worshiped, even if you are the only one foolish enough to see it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Troll Jesus, is pale porn all I'm good for???
> 
> Pale bondage is a thing I am really so down for. So _totally_ down for.
> 
> If the ending seems rushed, it is. I am writing this as I am waiting to be picked up, and she should be here in...about two minutes. I wrote an alternate, but I may not get around to posting it tonight.


	6. Day Six: Making fun of one another

06: Ridiculous

The snicker came before he can help it. His hand flew to his mouth, but the damage was done. Kankri's head snapped around and his eyes were narrowed dangerously. His mouth was thin and pale, and Gamzee was reminded of the glares he gave the computer late at night while surfing forums.

“Do you...have something to say?” His voice was _far_ too cheerful, and Gamzee shifted around in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest, with a look that normally would kill, but his fierce scowl was completely undone by the hat that was perched on top of his head. It was at least as tall as his head and decorated with thick, vertical rainbow stripes. He hadn't buckled the chin-straps, which was the only thing that kept Gamzee from laughing out loud.

As it was, he barely kept himself together long enough to shake his head. He tried to voice a negative, but he felt the laugh bubbling up and thought better of it. He could feel himself shaking from the suppressed laughter, which was part amusement and part terror.

“Gamzee?” Kankri pushed, taking a step forward. His eyes narrowed further, and a hysterical hiccup escaped Gamzee's mouth.

“Uhhh...no?” He tried to smile, and he sounded far too hopeful to be taken seriously. He didn't remove his hand from his mouth, afraid to bear his grin. Kankri took one more step forward and he scrambled to his feet, vaulting himself over the couch to keep _something_ between him and his roommate. “You, uh...you look great,” he tried to say, but couldn't quite get the words out. They came out strangled and high, and in that moment, Gamzee's life flashed before his eyes. “The, uh...the...motherfuckin'... _boots_ , look...ah...so...fucking...” He struggled to find a word, _any_ word, but he couldn't think of a damn thing. “I ain't seen any motherfucking thing like the shit you go on now.”

And then Kankri, decked in motley and fast food shame, unleashed his holy fury unto Gamzee's blaspheming ass and the clown was killed dead and it was good and all rejoiced.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last time I skip five straight days of prompt writing.
> 
> As you can tell, I got tired and ran out of ideas at the end there. Rest assured that once the 30 days is completed, I will go back and edit probably every single one of these one-shots. I hate publishing half-finished things, but better half-finished than not published at all??
> 
> Also I had a picture of the uniform Kankri's wearing, but I lost it >:(


	7. Day Seven: The death of someone close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual effort went into this prompt, and I wish it didn't.
> 
> Content warnings for this include death, of course, and angst.

07: Not Numb

 You don't remember coming home. You don't remember taking off the funeral clothes. You don't remember falling into bed. You don't remember Latula or Porrim leaving your apartment, or even really if they had been there with you in the first place. Your entire existence is condensed into the amount of time you spend lying on your side, too exhausted to do anything. Your entire world shrinks to the size of your queen-sized bed, once barely big enough for you and your ideas, and now so huge you feel like you're drowning. You do not live until the first tear falls, until the first sob works its way out of you, breaking the dam you've had in your chest for days. You haven't cried at all since... _since_. It has been building up in you, the way they said it would, and now that you've broken, you're _broken_.

Nothing works the way it should. Your body refuses to move. Your arms will not lift themselves up and your legs will not support your and your eyes will not stop crying. And your chest won't stop hurting. _It won't stop._ It's like someone is stabbing you, over and over and over and over and over. Every time you think you might stop, every time you feel you are too exhausted to draw breath, let alone sob, your chest explodes in pain again until you can do nothing but scream. You scream and scream and scream until you pass out.

Your dreams are dark and violent and you don't remember them either. You wake up sweating and shaking, half-blind from the sun coming in the window. You reach for your phone in a blind panic, too terrified to remember that you're _not supposed to dial this number under any circumstances_. It isn't until you hear Karkat's voice that reality hits you in the chest and you throw the phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, and you cover your ears with your hands, trying to drown out the sound of his voice.

You were numb when your parents died, but this is different. This is so so different. Karkat is...was... _was????_ all you had left. He was your brother, your pillar, the secret to your strength. You wish you could shut yourself off like you did before, like you've done for years, but his death has hit you like a truck and broken every switch inside you.

You think you fall back asleep. Maybe you just lay there like that until it's dark. You don't remember that either. You don't remember Gamzee coming in. You just remember how numb your fingers feel while you cling to him, how raw your throat feels as you cry the tears you thought were done with you. You are barely aware of him. All you know is his hand on your head, petting you in the way that always made you fall asleep, and his shirt which smells like burnt wood and soaks up your tears so they don't stain your waterlogged cheeks. You are still drowning in the expanse of your bed and the sea of your own grief.

He carries you into the kitchen and sets you down on the counter, which can't be easy considering he's barely bigger than you. He doesn't talk while he makes dinner, and you wish he would. It's too quiet for you to think straight. There is nothing to distract you. Well, there is the absolutely _mind-blowing amazingness_ of Gamzee's pot pie, but it turns sour in your mouth when you berate yourself because _how dare you find this so fucking good when your brother is dead, you heartless piece of shit_.

You cry until you are eating soup instead of pie. He just holds you, telling you it'll be okay. You know he's probably telling the truth, but you can't imagine that ever being the truth. He keeps eating, and you can do nothing but follow suit. You know how offended he gets when people don't eat his food. He's like...that one character in that movie...you can't remember it right now, but you're pretty sure he is just like that. If you insulted his cooking, he'd either cry or kill you. Or bother.

Only when you are fed and he's dragged you through the shower and gotten you back into bed does Gamzee let himself cry. You hate him for it. He's not allowed to cry. Karkat _was_ your brother. You remember belatedly that he has just as much right to be upset as you. They were going to get _married_. You hold him the way he held you, but it doesn't work as well. His crying sparks your tears, and your dreams that night are salty and tear-stained.

When you wake up, Gamzee is still and you panic. You don't know logic this early in the morning and you shake him awake so rough that you leave bruises on his arms. He doesn't yell at you, though he does punch you. You probably deserve it, but that doesn't stop you getting mad. You scream at him until you are hoarse, and he screams at you right back, and you both come to the conclusion that it it 200 times more pants-shittingly terrifying when he screams than when you do.

The anger feels kind of nice.

He still makes you breatkfast.

He stays with you for a period of time that is meaningless. He holds you when you cry and he makes you food when your stomach growls and he pushes you into the shower when you smell like a locker room. He sits and listens to you ramble for hours at a time, even when you say absolutely nothing of consequence. In his own weird brand of kindness, he offers you weed to help cope with the pain, but you tell him he needs it more. You don't tell him you are more afraid of being numb than anything.


	8. Day Eight: Sleeping in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the hell do you write "sleeping in"?????? "They slept. They spooned. It was pretty cute."
> 
> Also, in this prompt, my tall!brawny!Vantas is showing.

08

 The first time you open your eyes and see the clock mocking you, you make up your motherfucking mind right then and there you ain't giving in to that shit. It takes a couple of uncoordinated minutes to get your arms agreeing to work hard enough to yank it out of its power source, and by that point, Kankri's awake, barely. He's all smushed under you, though there ain't so much smushing going on considering the motherfucker's got pounds and inches on you like as which can't be believed. He gets his grumble on, complaining in ways that ain't nothing but exhausted and bitter, but you hush him up quick with a couple kisses and coax him back to sleep.

Kankri always scolds you for staying out of the world of the up and living so damn long, but the truth of the matter you usually ain't sleeping. Usually he leaves you for dead in the bed long before the sun's smeared across the sky, and you can't find no sleep when the world is so motherfucking cold, but now you've got a solid fucking furnace keeping you warm and helping you drift back to sleep proper.

He's so motherfucking warm that shit carries with you into places reality ain't shit. Your dreams got it in their heads you're in a burning house, but it ain't shit to fear. Then you're by the ocean, blissed out the waves and cooked to done by the sun and then Kankri's on you covered in the aftermath of the ocean's embrace and the dream ain't fit for repeating after that.

The second time you open your eyes, the clock ain't alive enough to tell you shit, but the sun decided he's sick of your shit and sent his little children to dance right through the window and onto your face. You flinch and your head makes a mighty crash against the chin of your forever after and your sleeping in is brought to a great, painful end. Kankri yelps and cusses in that way of his that ain't true cursing but is a hell of a lot funnier. You force your body to work in ways what's true and proper so you can get away before shit gets violent, but he ain't mad for much longer than a second or two once he gets his look on you on the floor all wide-eyed and half-asleep.

You make it up to him cooking breakfast in those manners special which got the makings of romance in them, ignoring his protests that ain't a proper man has breakfast at four in the afternoon. You shove his mouth full of pancakes till the arguments turn to sugar and when he speaks it ain't with nothing but sweet nothings on his tongue. You take your morning shower at six and when you ain't got death in your breath he finally lets you give him a kiss good morning.  


	9. Day Nine: Hugging

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a parody of my getting-into-character exercise for Kankri in which I write essays about random topics.

09: The Science of Gamzee Makara's Embrace, by Kankri Vantas

The trigger warnings for the following essay include: drug use, mental insanity/instability, pale romance, moirallegiance,

First, we shall introduce the subject. Gamzee Makara, for those who are unaware, is an indigo-blooded troll of approximately eight sweeps of age. I disapprove of the use of the word, but before he was taken in by yours truly as a moirail, he could have been described as “insane,” due to mental deterioration as a result of incorrect use of sopor slime as a mind-enhancing #tw: drug.

Upon, and even before, taking Gamzee as my moirail, I made the observation that he was a very tactile troll...that is, he was rather obsessed with physical feeling and contact. Long before we became romantically involved, he was prone to touching me or even embracing me against my will. At first I took this as a sign of offense, but further contact with him I came to realize that this was almost involuntary on his part. After our relationship began in earnest, the amount of physical contact between the two of us skyrocketed, to the point that I found I could categorize the kind of hugs he gave.

First, there is the just-because hug. These hugs are spontaneous and happen very often, usually after one of us enters the same room as the other or some other trivial matter. I believed, initially and mistakenly, these were out of boredom, because there was no way he could legitimately be this excited about stupid things like seeing me for the first time in five minutes. But yes, further observation proved that he really was that excited about that and other such trivial matters, and that these hugs were an attempt to relieve some of the built up stress in his system he was unable of coping with in any predictable fashion. As his moirail, then, it was my duty to endure these emotional outlets for him, to ensure he retained the emotional stability that was so imperative.

The second kind of hug is a more intimate affair. It is what I've coined the truly pale hug. These are more tender and less quick than the previous type, and generally occur after he or I have said something that is especially in tune with the nature of our relationship (that is to say, when we have been verbally pale towards one another). These hugs linger and have little strength behind them, but are affectionate in a way that is difficult to describe in words.

The third hug is the crisis hug, to use a somewhat triggering/serious word. These are often given by me, though I have been on the receiving end on more than one occasion. These are, as one could imagine, hugs of a pale variety which are used when something serious has happened, such as a mental break or some other deep emotional trauma which can vary in severity. This hug can be preceded or followed by paps, and is often accompanied by some kind of soothing noise such as purring, humming, or speaking nonsense words in a monotone.

_I will finish this later I swear to god I'm so tired._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I am so fucking tired.


	10. Day Ten: Watching the other sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My switching POV really put this in my favor. Anyway, yeah, I think sopor prolly not longer works on Gamzee on account of his abusing it as a child. Kind of like how some people build up tolerance to medicine if they are sick a lot as a kid?

10: Insomnia

 When you open your eyes and see Kankri's face inches from your own, relaxed and peaceful and in the world of the dreaming dead, you make up your mind then and there that's a sight you're gonna get your peep on every motherfucking day for the rest of your natural life.

You ain't slept in a 'coon in a long ass time, and you got it in your pan that you ain't exactly surprised you ain't snoozing like the precious motherfucking what parked his butt across from you. Sopor hasn't got to working its magic on you like it does normal folks, what with your ingesting it as a tot and all. What sleep you catch sure is empty of dreams of the violent and un-peaceful type, but what sleep you catch sure is also infrequent and mighty short. You wouldn't complain no ways, knowing how hard it was for Kankri to offer you space what was his and ain't never been shared by another living soul since he was a little thing.

You know in your pusher you ain't never looked so peaceful when you get to day-napping. You also know in that same organ no troll every looked so fucking beautiful when they get their snooze on.

He's not smiling, on account of you not being sure he knows quite how, but there's a little baby twitch in the corners of his mouth, right in those little dimples where you always find yourself kissing him, what got you thinking there may be a little joy growing there. He gets to biting his lip when he has dreams that ain't none too pleasant, so the bottom lip always got a swell on it the like of which makes you want to take it in your own mouth. You ain't never seen him look so happy as he does right now. One part of you gets to feeling bitter you ain't never coaxed no smile out of him, but the other part can't think of an argument on account of being so in love with what messiahs put in front of you.

He's got sweeps on you, or rather sweep singular, but it don't show now. He got a peace like of which can't be seen on any sane troll above six sweeps. He takes breaths so deep they got the meaning of life inside and you want to grab his face and kiss him till he ain't got no breath left, but he's so fucking gorgeous like this you can't imagine waking him. He makes a little mumble in his sleep like a baby meowbeast and your chest feels all full of pink fluff and you lean forward and kiss him, or the air just in front of him, 'cause fuck if you're gonna disturb him.

You manage to catch some z's a good time later, but when you wake up again, you fall in love again with the face what looks so fucking beautiful in front of you.


End file.
